Chapter 8

Strength

Strength was about having the courage to continue on each day. Were you strong enough to get out of bed, walk miles to work, and put in twelve hours in a place that paid horrible, where you were treated with no respect, and had no chance of advancement? Strength didn't just come in the physical form, but the mental form as well. It was the ability to overcome obstructions in your path by persevering. Were you strong enough to handle it? Could it be possible to continue to work even when your feet were blistered so badly that you stripped the boots from your feet just so the pain was more bearable? It was to those who could that had the strength to keep going.

The children's hands provided a map to the history of their work. Ink stains from newspapers, soot from the factories, calluses from sewing, cuts from any various backbreaking jobs – veins of hard work, love, family, and friendship ran through their palms.

In the depths of downtown Manhattan, Buttercup Tate, otherwise known to her friends as BC, worked in a hand-laundry facility. The labor was immense, yet the pay was miniscule, and BC was accustomed to it. Sporting her favorite light green dress and dusty, old black boots, BC pushed up the worn fabric of her sleeves before tying up her straight, dark brown hair. It was this part of the day that was the hardest on her. The early afternoon was when she felt most drained, yet she still had hours of work left to do.

The humidity of the outside world clashed with laundry shop, creating an incredibly uncomfortable working environment. But when her feet ached and her back was bruised, BC staggered on. If she was to get anywhere in her life, she needed to continue working here. The best way to get through another workday was to not think about the amount of hours left or the newest cut on her hand. She thought about the future, or how tonight she was going to celebrate a birthday with her friends, or how tomorrow she had planned to go to Brooklyn and swim at the docks.

"C'mon BC, back ta woik," grumbled the owner as he watched her stretch out her back.

"Yes sir," BC answered, a small smile spreading across her features. As she started to clean yet another piece of laundry, BC thought about the hours outside of work, and the friends that would be there tonight to keep her company.

****

"Busy, how nice of you to join us." Medda tapped her pink boot on the floor as she looked at Busy sternly. With a brush in one hand and a chunk of her wild red hair in the other, Medda was amidst her daily ritual of taming her locks, and everyone knew that was the worst time to dampen her mood.

Smoothing her light brown hair, Busy Body let her blue eyes trail to the ground. "Sorry I'm a little late."

"It's alright. Just don't let it become a permanent thing or I'll dock it from ya pay," she warned, cursing under her breath as another curl stubbornly stuck itself in her comb.

"Yes ma'am," Busy nodded. Before Medda could instruct her where to go, Busy had already joined the small group of practicing girls on stage.

The girls weren't all extremely gifted, by any means, but the four each brought something different to Irving Hall, and to Medda's performances. There was the saucy one, the voluptuous one, the ditzy one, and then there was Busy, whom they had all brandished jealously as the talented one.

Medda knew, just as everyone else in Irving Hall hall, that Busy had the ability to become a wonderful dancer, but she lacked the know-how of the business world. She could dance and sing her heart out, but that was all she knew. Busy didn't know how to negotiate a contract or win the admiration of the dance hall owners. She wasn't refined enough to win the hearts of another dance company. Her quick tongue had cost her jobs in the past, and Medda was one of the only employers that would overlook her occasional snide comments. Busy refused to flirt with an owner to get a place on the stage – it was beneath her, and she wouldn't cave in just for a job.

For that reason, Busy remained at Irving Hall, playing second fiddle to Medda Larkson, the star and owner of the building. While Medda made sure she was kept the headliner of the show, Busy didn't notice that she went overlooked, just because Medda was top billed. Other club owners didn't recognize the background dancers. The spotlight was always on Medda, and it would be for as long as the 'Swedish Meadowlark' centered herself on that stage.

"Busy, now what is that? Do what we've been practicin'!" Medda bellowed from the front row of seats.

"Some people call it ballet," Busy snapped, her voice echoing off the dark walls.

"Well, I call it the wrong dance," Medda retorted. "From the top girls! We're doing this number for the first time tonight and I will not have it less than perfect."

~~

It was half an hour before show time, and after hours of practice, the girls all sat in the dressing room, nursing their aching feet and muscles. Busy stood in one corner, stretching her back, making herself as limber as possible, as the other three sat near the mirror, adjusting their makeup and discussing the handsome men that might show up at the venue tonight.

"Fools," Busy muttered under her breath. She adjusted the eccentric purple dress that Medda ordered them all to wear and pressed a hand against the cold wall to sturdy herself as she stretched her legs. More concerned about gentleman callers than the performance itself.

Busy paid no heed to the other side of dancing at Irving Hall. The owner didn't set a limit to how far the girls could go with the gentlemen in the audience, as sometimes the money was too good to pass up. But Busy wasn't interested in making any money on the side. She loathed having men ogle her, but she could at least ignore it while she was dancing. Once up on that stage, nothing mattered but the rhythms in the music and the spark in her step.

Off stage, while the others flirted and extended their business, Busy strutted confidently to the dressing room, where, as after every performance, she envisioned it again in her mind, going over her steps, figuring out what could have been done better, or with more flare. She never stopped dancing, whether it was on the stage, or in her mind.

"Ready girls? Twenty minutes until we're on. Busy, I want you to be on your mark this time, not five feet from it."

I'm always on my mark. You're the one who's off. Busy nodded. "Yes ma'am, I know." Her mark changes every performance for goodness sakes.

"Medda, when are we gonna do solos?" Busy inquired. She'd asked the same question every practice, and before every performance. Medda had promised them solos weeks ago, saying that eventually they too would get their chance in the limelight, but the day had yet to come.

"When we get these numbers right," Medda answered. "Then we'll see. Now warm up. It's almost time." With that she left the room to begin greeting the important customers before the show started.

Sighing, Busy went back to stretching, her hopes crushed once more. Opportunities were hard to come by in this business, and if Medda kept putting off Busy's chance for a solo, she didn't know if she'd ever make it above a dive like Irving Hall.

"Why are ya even botherin' her wid such nonsense?" one of the girls muttered. "She ain't gonna give ya a solo."

"It ain't nonsense ta me," Busy mumbled. One 'a dese days, I'll have me solo.

Busy knew that her day would eventually come. She wouldn't show the others how it hurt to go overlooked, she was stronger than that. A hardened shell was a necessity in such a vast city. Children came here with soft exteriors, and even softer interiors, but found that not only did they have to change their way of life, but their priorities, and in some cases, their morals. When the choice between starving to death or pilfering a piece of fruit from a food stand, the latter usually took precedence.

~~~~

I can't… I don't got it in me no more, can't ya see dat! Itey screamed, his arms covering his matted black hair as he curled up on his bunk. I ain't strong enough! I ain't!

Jack sat down beside Itey, and grabbed his arms firmly before he spoke. Listen ta me! You are plenty strong enough! Don't feed me dat crap! And tomorroah, yer gonna get up, just like da rest of us, and face dose cowards! 'Cause dat's what dey are, cowards! Damn scabs don't know nothin' but listenin' to Pulitzer. All dey know is how ta follow, but dey don't know how ta lead! Yer stronger den dey are. Yer standin' up for what ya believe in! And tomorrah, yer gonna stand up again.

****